


Skin

by leahalexis



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-30
Updated: 2002-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahalexis/pseuds/leahalexis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's the same, if a little drunk and soul-sore for wear. Buffy, meanwhile, has found out just how different she really is . . . (Alternate beginning of season 7.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night

I open the door and he's standing there, head dropped, bottle of gin dangling from his fingers.

"Spike?" I ask, I whisper, because he's the last person I would have expected, even if, sometimes late at night, the first one I hope for.

"Slayer." It isn't very convincing. His speech is slurred. "Buffy. Tried to stay away."

I take him by the elbow, invite him in. "We were worried," I tell him, leading him into the living room.

"Were not," he mutters, as he slumps on to the couch. His head falls back, and he looks at me for the first time. "Hate me."

And there's something so familiar in his eyes, some thing so horrifying that I begin to back away.

He struggles to his feet, follows me. "Should hate me. Shoulda slammed the door in my bloody face. Just let me in, like a friend, like . . . like las' year never happened, Dawn asleep an' trusting up in her little-girl bed . . ."

"Dawn can take care of herself," I say quietly, and for a moment he's surprised. Then he looks glad, nods sloppily.

"Good for the bit, makin' you see."

"She knows," I blurt out, because I'm tired of it hanging between us, tired of my guilt. He's come back, and now I can tell him.

There's silence, and I expect him to be mad maybe, but instead he nods again. "Time for her to grow up, then. She  _should_  know. Hate me too, does she?"

There's dullness in his voice, a desperate hope he expects to be disappointed. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. I can't look at him while I tell him.

"A lot of stuff's . . . happened, while you were . . . were wherever you were. Tara . . . was killed. Willow tried to end the world. Dawn's talking to  _her_  again. So I think. . . I think you've got a chance." Now I meet his eyes, because it's the right thing to do. "I tried to explain it to her. How it wasn't your fault. Not . . . not all of it. How it was mine." My voice is steadier than I ever would have imagined.

He curses to himself, and then he shudders, he shudders so hard I almost think he's breaking. He takes a long swig of the gin. "Buffy—"

"No," I tell him, and now I'm shaking, and moving closer. I'm taking the bottle, setting it down on the coffee table. "No, let me do this. I was so unfair to you, after everything you'd done for me. For all of us. I . . . I used you. And then after I told you it was over, I kept coming back, throwing it in your face. Because I was the one having trouble with it, because I . . .missed you. And it was so wrong, doing that to you. And then in . . . right before you left, upstairs . . ." My voice breaks.

"Buffy, you don't have to—"

I reach out, take his hands, lace my fingers through mine, but I don't stop talking, because I do have to. "I wouldn't talk to you. I couldn't . . . wouldn't even explain, I just dismissed you. I was done with the conversation, and it was time for you to go away. I don't . . . I don't blame you." I look down. "It's not like my saying no ever meant anything before."

It's like his knees have buckled, because he's fallen, he's on the floor, his forehead pressed to my abdomen, and he's shaking. It takes me a minute to figure out he's crying. Spike cries?

"Spike. Spike, come on. Don't . . . it's okay, see? We're both okay. Come here, come with me . . ."

And he lets me take him back to the couch, and I sit on the coffee table across from him. I grab the gin and hand it to him. He shakes his head, and I'm so surprised I take a swig myself before setting it aside again.

He starts to speak, finally, but he seems so far away. "You were right, Slayer, not to trust me. Couldn't see what you were saying, you see. Wasn't capable. Not like I am now. Didn't understand. God I was a stupid wanker. Smartened up now. See it lots of nights in my head. Even right after, when I said I would never, an' I meant it, you were right. I would. I did. Cause I couldn't see what I was doing to you. Couldn't feel it, even hearing your screams. I can now. I can feel all of it, every bloody second of my hundred an' twenty years. Don't how the ponce stands it."

"A soul." I say it, and I gag. I feel my stomach twisting inside me. "You've got a soul."

He's still gazing off far away. "Reckon I'm a bit more trustworthy now, eh pet?"

But he doesn't feel safer. "Oh God, oh God." I'm sick. I'm  _thrilled_. Too much, too much. "How—"

"When I left, I went to Africa. Went to get the chip out. Wanted to kill you, couldn't take it anymore. Didn't work out. Demon had a sense of humor." He focuses, finally, on my face. "Wasn't going to come back. That didn't work out either. So here I am."

He reaches out, strokes his hand along my cheek, and I can't move, I can hardly even breathe, I can only look at him, the reverence in his face. Oh God, oh God.

"I missed you," he whispers, and it's like the floodgates are open. His hands are on my arms and he's pulling me on to him, burying his face in my neck. I let him, I tilt my head, look, I trust you, it's okay, because he's trembling and it's frightening me. He's pressing open-mouth kisses along the length of my neck, dragging my shirt aside to reach my shoulder.

"I need you," he says. "I need you."

My hands clutch at his shoulders, and the shock of having him there under my fingertips again is enough to jolt me back into reality, where I can feel him hard against my thigh, body tensed like a jackrabbit, tears wet on my skin as his blunt teeth beg at my flesh.

"Spike, we can't—"

And immediately he's not touching me, I'm on the couch alone and he's standing, and he's whispering into his hands that he's sorry, he's so sorry, that I shouldn't let him do this, that he'll never do it again, that he has to go, and he's heading for the back door like he's not good enough for the front one.

Some part of me wishes I hadn't said anything, that I'd let him take me upstairs, but we can't start that again, not this soon, we just can't.

"Your coat," I say, scrambling after him, catching up with him just as he reaches the door. "We've got your coat . . ."

There's a moment of indecision before he speaks, and in it I can hear my heart, beating, beating.

"I'll come back for it," he says before turning again to the door, and I sag from the relief, catching myself on the kitchen counter.

"If you promise," I say, and my voice is hoarse.

He turns back at the doorway. "Being with you, Buffy, just burns it all away. Better 'n alcohol. I get it now. It takes away the pain. Can't suffer, touching you. Knowing the feel of your skin."

My skin. I bring a hand to my neck, brush my fingers against the bruise starting there. Strange that it gives him such comfort, because all I ever seem to do is suffer inside it.

The screen door flaps closed, and he's gone.


	2. Day

It's early afternoon in the repaired magic shop. I'm pacing, Anya's cleaning, and Xander and Willow are sitting close at the table. It still hurts Willow to be here, you can tell, but I think she keeps coming because it feels like punishment. She told me she thinks she deserves all she can get, and I can't really argue. So we meet here, still. Mostly because it's where the books are. Even though it hurts Willow to see the changes she's caused, even though it hurts Xander, too, being here reveryday, with Anya.

Me, I'm actually okay with it. All of it, most of the time. The memories are dulled, almost comforting. The pain is grounding. It feels good to remember because it's over now. But for Willow, it's too close. Maybe still for Xander too. He doesn't talk about it much, at least to me. Maybe to Willow. I don't know what happened, not exactly, that day with them, up there at the foot of the freshly unburied temple, but now he and Willow are closer than I've ever seen them. I'm not the focus way I used to be, but I'm dealing. It's better, in a lot of ways. Not so much pressure. Everything's really been pretty much okay.

Or at least it was until Spike came back. I didn't tell them-well, I told Dawn, who immediately began making my life a living hell . . . you know, again . . . until I disclosed every single detail, right down to Spike and my misguided macking. Two days later she managed to calm down and stop chattering about how great it was he was back, and how she was sure he'd be bursting through the door all midday flame-y any minute. When it became pretty obvious he wasn't, she stopped mentioning it at all. I mean, aside from the couple of Spike-induced sisterly bonding sessions we had in the middle of the night when she found me crying at the kitchen table. She'd pet my head and tell me he promised, of course he'd be back, he didn't take his coat, remember? But I could tell she was a little hurt too. That he hadn't asked about her, hadn't been back to see her. She was weirdly understanding about it though, and I couldn't help feeling like it was unfair he got so much allowance when I had gotten so little. But I guess Dawn's all over the whole guilt-and-atonement thing these days. She still owes Anya a few afternoons in the shop. Her and an ever-repentant Willow both.

I didn't, however, tell her about the soul thing. It was beginning to feel like a dream. The whole thing was beginning to feel like a dream. After that whole asylum incident, I'm a suspicious girl. Can you blame me?

But now here he is, standing in front of us, cocky and defensive as ever with his thumbs tucked in the waist of his black jeans. His black tee fits just as snug, and his signature red silk button-down hangs open across his chest. The training room door is still open. There's no blanket, no smoke.

I can't look him in the eye after the other night, but it seems like the feeling's mutual, cause his focus is squarely on the wall behind me.

Xander finds his voice first. "Spike!" He's on his feet and trying to look threatening, standing protectively over Will. I see Anya roll her eyes and go back to dusting.

"What of it?" Spike sneers.

"It's very nice to see you. How'd you get in?" Anya asks.

Bless Anya's heart.

"It's daylight out," Xander asks snidely. "Shouldn't you be dust?"

Spike smirks. "What? Didn't Buffy tell you? Got a soul now, sun don't burn." They all stare at him while I look at the floor, and he rolls his eyes. "Came through the sewers, you nits." He grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl. "Soul part's true though."

Just then Dawn is in from school, the store bell ringing, the now-familiar thud of her bag by the door, her voice calling, "Okay, I'm ready, what's the latest creature crisi— Spike!" And she's throwing herself into his arms and he's hugging her back, looking so genuinely glad it breaks my heart. Partly because he's never looked like that for me. Or maybe he has and I never wanted to see it. I just know he didn't the other night. Then it was more sloppy anger, if self-directed, than joy. You know, the usual.

I guess this is too much for Xander, still suffering from the loss of Dawn's childhood infatuation—despite how aware of Dawn's  _lack_  of childhood she's been sure to make us of late. "Well. Spike," he starts his taunt, and I think he's missed circumstances that let him swagger that way. "Back to terrorize the womenfolk some more? I mean, Dawn's what, 16 now? Close enough, right?" The intimation in his voice is sick in my stomach, and I'm both ashamed that for a minute I believed it, and worried that my body automatically revolts from believing Spike capable. Because he is. Or was. Or . . . something.

Dawn glares, poisonous. "Xander!"

" 's okay, bit," Spike says, and untangles her from around his waist. He nudges her towards a chair. She flounces down and slides low, shooting Xander another look before crossing her arms and setting her jaw.

Spike nods his head at Willow. studiously ignoring the threat that is Xander's withering glare. "Red. Sorry about your girl. An' the apocolypse an' all."

"Thanks," Willow says, and looks down at her hands.

He shifts his gaze. "How's tricks, Anya?"

"The store is doing very well," Anya tells him. "Xander is still angry we had sex."

"I . . . Anya!"

Finally Spike's eyes slide to me. "Slayer," he says. The epithet doesn't mean much anymore, though it sounds as venemous, as seductive, as it always has. He's curling his tongue behind his teeth in that way he knows I hate.

"Spike," I bite out.

He smirks, and it's been years since he's looked at me that way. So cold. "Must've missed me, Slayer. Unless there's some other lucky chap you like t' use that holier-'en-thou tone on?"

I give him my grimmest smile. "No. Just you."

" 'm touched."

Dawn looks at me like I'm crazy and goes back to being teenage and disgruntled. I deserve the scorn. It's like nothing happened the other night. It's like nothing's happened since . . . since high school. We're still enemies. Nothing changes. I don't know why the light does this, why it makes us act this way. Is it because once the sun rises I think I can be a normal girl, one who'd never even know a vampire, much less feel for one? Is it because once the sun rises he thinks so, too?

"So, Spike, a soul, eh?" Anya asks, and she's extra perky. As usual she understands human interaction better than we give her credit for. Also as usual she makes a not-so-good decision about what to do about it. It's the thing she and Cordy most have in common. "How's that working out for you?"

"He does  _not_  have a soul," Xander says.

"I do  _so_!" He's so defensive.

"Look at him," Xander says, and again the ignoring abounds. It's like he and Spike are in mutually exclusive dimensions the rest of us somehow cross. "He's just as evil and disgusting as ever."

"You do seem a little . . . not-different," Willow ventures. "I mean, than I would have thought, with the . . . change and all . . ."

"What? You wanted puppy dog eyes an' poofy hair?" Spike sucks in his cheeks, runs a hand over his hair. I wonder if he's checking. "Yeah, I feel bad about stuff, all right? Some more 'an others." His voice drops to a mutter for the last part, and I feel my face burn. When he speaks again, his voice is fiercer. "But I'm not bleedin' Angel. I'm not gonna mope about it for a century. Boo hoo, woe is me, I hurt people. I can't very well do anything 'bout most of it now, can I? M' victims are all  _dead_."

Xander makes this little disdainful voice in the back of his throat and Spike growls. Dawn sits up a little straighter, looks alarmed.

"That's it! I don't know what I was thinking, comin' here, tryin' t' . . . Bugger it."

He whirls around and storms back through the training room with Dawn after him, "Spike! Wait!"

It doesn't take long before the silence breaks.

"Can you believe that? The nerve of him?"

It takes me a minute to realize Xander's talking to me.

"I believe him," Willow says quietly, saving me from having to answer. She's still watching the training room door. "I don't think he's been sleeping much lately."

"How can you tell?" Anya asks.

"Kinda familiar look these days." Willow turns to look at us, smiles in that little matter-of-fact Willow way. "Seein' it every morning in the bathroom mirror."

I pull out a chair and sit down. I don't know what to think anymore, after Willow. She's my friend, but she did beat me up, almost kill my Watcher, and try to end the world. I can lie to myself and pretend it was the "dark magic" that did it, but it wasn't. It was Willow. Our Willow. She did so much damage, caused so much pain. And I still call her friend. Xander would say, yeah, but she's over it now. Spike . . . Spike will never be "over it." He is what he is, he can't give up being a vampire. You can't exorcise his demon; he  _is_  his demon. The darkness is in him, and living, not magic, is what triggers it.

But the way he's been living lately? Not so evil. There was the whole demon eggs thing, but I mean, that's no worse than Xander summoning the demon world's answer to the Lord of the Dance, right? And so he attacked me, it's nothing my best friends haven't done while possessed by hyenas. Especially now that there's this whole soul thing. It makes him different from what he used to be, doesn't it? It makes him like the people I love. The ones I'm allowed to forgive.

And there's the other stuff. The stuff I haven't told him yet.

I stand up suddenly, and both Xander and Willow look at me.

"Buffy, you okay?"

"Not . . . Yes. I just . . . " I laugh a little, try and smile at him. "It's nothing, really. I'll see you guys tomorrow, okay? I need to . . . find Dawn."

Because when I find Dawn, maybe she can help me find Spike.


	3. Daybreak

Dawn is easy to find. She is sitting on the step outside Spike's Crypt—always Spike's, whoever's living or unliving in it—knees bent, arms crossed close to her body. I watch her for a minute from the shadows, bright in the pink jean jacket and pale skin, lit by the moon (so pretty, my sister, and so heart-breakingly loyal, beautifully, blindly loving), before stepping into sight and sound, into the world. Instantly she's on her feet, stake clenched in her raised right fist

"Oh," she says, when she sees. "It's just you."

"Yes, just me," I say as she flops back down on her vamp big brother's stoop.

I sit next to her.

"I know," she says, before I can, "I shouldn't be out alone at night, in the middle of the cemetery, in plain sight."

"At least you've got your stake," I say.

"Well duh."

We both stare out into the cemetery for a while.

"He's not here, huh?" I ask.

"No," Dawn says, "but he's been living here again. Blood in the fridge."

I nod, then add, "I checked Willy's. Couple of other places he used to go. Nothing."

"There was only one bag in there," she offers. "Maybe he went for more."

The crickets are muted.

"Buffy," Dawn says, looking at me. "Why?"

"I don't know," I say, and put my arm around her as she leans her head on my shoulder. "But I'm sorry," I tell her, and press my lips to the top of her head.

"Did you know he had a soul?"

"Yeah."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"No."

Dawn just shifts a little closer. "Buffy, I don't want him to leave again."

"Me neither," I say after awhile.

I did miss him. Nobody to fight with. Nobody to really stay with. And before the messiness that was us together, he was good to talk to. He could be so patient when he wanted to be. When it suited his purposes. And gentle.

Dawn sniffles. "But you don't love him?"

I think about this for awhile. "Not the way I think you're supposed to love somebody," I say finally. "But I care about him. I want to trust him, and maybe I can now. I want him to stay."

She seems satisfied, and she wraps her arms around me and squeezes. "I love you. You're going to wait for him?"

"I am."

"Then I'll go home." She pauses. "Don't let him leave," she pleads one more time. "Please."

I smile at her, buoyed. "I'm still the Slayer. I can still kick his ass. If he tries to go I'll just chain him to something."

Dawn giggles. "Kinky," she says, and before I can admonish her she's off into the night. "See you at home!"

I lean my head back against the concrete and forcibly not-worry-about-Dawn. I guess I sleep. When I wake up, it's because Spike is standing there, blood and alcohol supply tucked under his arm in a brown bag, studying me.

"Slayer," he says, and I stand up.

"Gonna invite me in?" I ask jauntily.

He nods curtly, and moves past me into the crypt, leaving me to follow.

"Surprised you didn't waltz right in and make yourself at home."

I shrug, even though his back is turned, and shift uneasily on my feet. "I—I'm sorry about Xander today," I say, and it's lame.

He grunts. "'m used to the whelp."

He's opened the fridge, is putting away the blood, the bottles of whatever it is he's drinking these days. And, curiously, brownies and strawberry Light-'n'-Lively yogurt cups. It means he's planning on seeing Dawn again, I realize. It means he's not leaving. My heart actually leaps.

"There's something I didn't get to tell you the other night," I say, feeling stronger.

"Yeah?" he says brittlely, back still mostly to me.

"Yeah."

He finishes with the bag and crumbles it up, deposits it in the can beside the fridge. He crosses the room to what must have been his bed since I grenaded his downstairs, and sits. He looks straight at me, aggressively.

"Get on with it then." His voice is inexplicably muffled.

I clear my throat, rub my hands on the legs of my jeans. "There's, ah, there's some stuff we found out. While you were away. About me. About what happened when I—" I force through the crack in my voice. "—died. When I died."

I look up at him. His forearms are resting on his knees and he's looking up at me, mouth closed and slack. There's so much space between us, I realize, in the room, in the air, in the everything. But he's watching me, his eyes are so focused, like I'm his world, and I take a step closer.

"Willow found it, she's been helping at the Magic Box to pay for all the Evil-Willow damage. Giles left it."

"It?"

"A book. An old one," I add helpfully.

"Of course."

"Anyway, Giles. We called him, he said it was a new arrival, the box had arrived just before he left the first time and he'd never gotten around to going through it with all the . . . other stuff." I take a deep breath. "I'm . . . Do you remember hearing about the first time I died?"

"Called that Kendra bird Dru killed, right?"

I feel a flash of anger, of sorrow, still. But for now, I ignore it. "It was the Master. Bit me, right—"

I start to pull my shirt aside to show him, but he shakes his head. Gently, he says, "I've seen it."

"Oh. Right." I shift feet, keep myself from moving. "He didn't take much, just a little. Lots of world to take over, I guess. He thralled me, then he just dropped me. I drowned. There was this pool—"

I glance up at him, and his mouth quirks, almost a smile. "I guess that's not he point." And I'm kind of smiling too, a little.

"When Xander brought me back, it was different. I was different. Stronger. More powerful. More . . . distilled. The book—well, the short version is that when I died that first time, the Slayerness or whatever left me. My body, I mean. It went on to Kendra, like it was supposed to." I'm wringing my hands but I can't help it. "All the books, all the prophecies, they treat the Slayer as one thing. One girl, one Slayer. Death is like an express plane trip. Same girl, just, poof! now we're in Africa, poof! now we're in LA, poof! now we're in Iceland. So Kendra was the Slayer."

"And you?"

"Pretty much what I was before. I mean, same strength, same superhero healing, but no destiny. No fate. Because that was Kendra's. And then after Kendra, it was Faith's. That's how it should've worked anyway. Except . . . except there was this . . . there were these splinters, or, or frayed edges, still in me. And this space. This space that had to be filled. Willow's still working on what it was, exactly, that did the filling. But it made me strong. And that bit of Slayerness left in me kept drawing the other Slayer to me, and me to them. Well, and to vampires."

He starts to smirk.

"In the killing way, Spike. And it worked okay. I don't think it made a difference, really . . . not until we summoned the First Slayer. And then it was like . . . .like she moved in. Or like she'd been there all along, which is what Willow's current hypothesis is, that her essence had been pulled there in that space destiny wasn't filling anymore. Calling her . . . activated it. That was when I started to hunt. But I was dealing with it. Didn't notice the change 'til Dracula showed up and rubbed my face in it. And even then, there was Dawn and Glory and Mom. And then I died."

I can't see so well in the shadows, but I think Spike's jaw clenches. Softly, his voice comes to me: "An' when the witch brought you back, pet?"

"When they brought me back, those splinter-things that had been hanging around, they weren't there anymore. Angel said Faith knew it, the moment I was gone, that she felt it. When he went to tell her, she already knew. 'B's gone, eh?' she said, 'Good for her.' She looked heavier, he said, but he didn't think much of it because he was feeling pretty heavy too. Willow things she got it back, all the destiny was hers now. And I came back free!"

I throw my arms out, almost laughing. "This was me free! Free to do whatever I wanted! To be a normal girl! Except for the superstrength and the weight of knowing everything I knew. But it was like . . . like without that whole destiny thing, without having an override, I didn't know how to deal with the rest of my life. 'Cause it'd been so long since I'd had to. I'd put so much away for so long, only getting to deal with it in short, really not sufficient bursts, like in LA that summer, before destiny yanked me back."

I close my eyes. This is the hard part, the part that makes my apology the other night so sincere—what I had to own up to before I could say sorry. "So all of a sudden, my time was mine. I didn't have any more excuses to put it all off. I couldn't deal. I didn't want to. So I invented responsibilities. Burdens to carry. Secrets to keep. But they were just diversions."

Spike is growling. It's an unexpected sound.

"Is that how you're explaining me to yourself, Buffy?"

His eyes glint like they always used to glint when I'd done something to make him really, really angry, and I'm so thankful to see it, to see something, looking into them, other than that soul-pain I can't get used to in him, and so drained from my confession, that it takes me a second to process what he's asked.

"W-what?" I'm surprised, I furrow my brow, push my hair, fallen forward while I spoke, behind my ears. "Spike, no. No. You're . . . I can't . . . There is no explaining you." I try a smile. It's not a good joke and I know it.

He snorts in the back of his throat. "What happened back there, Slayer? In the Magic Box, with all your little friends?"

He doesn't mean Xander. He means how I just stood there.

"I . . . I don't know!" It's the same answer I gave to Dawn, and it's just as true. I imagine I look so lost about it. I feel lost about it. "I didn't mean for it to . . . I was glad you came back," I finish, firmly, to make up for my confusion in everything else.

"Was?"

"Am. Am! God Spike! Why do you always have to . . ."

"Check?" His answer mutes me. "Buffy, sit down," he says, and gestures to the new couch. I go, sit on the edge. My knees are pressed together, my body a little hunched, my hands twisted around each other.

He stares at me for a while, or through me. Finally, his eyes focus again.

"Why did you tell me all of that, just now?" He gestures, as if to the past.

At least this is a question I can answer. "Because I wanted you to know."

He nods, at that. A little coolly, he asks, "Is there anything else you wanted me to know?"

I tense; is he kicking me out? He sees it and gives a short bark of a laugh.

I scowl.

There's something speculative in his eyes, some change. He pushes off the bed and dismisses the space between us, the space I could never cross, and sits beside me. I look away from him, at my hands, as his fingers brush my jaw, the fabric covering my neck, as they whisper across the knob of my bared shoulder. I'm breathing rapidly.

His voice rasps: "Sure there's nothing else I need to know?" his touch relearning the tender inside of my arm, my collar. The weight of his touch is like a tactile groan, halfway between restraint and surrender.

A tear drops onto my lap. I realize, with a start, that I am crying.

He notices too. His hands go away. I want to tell him, make it clear to him that isn't why, that it isn't what he thinks, but I can't bring myself to look at him. I know how dumb I'm being. I'll tell Dawn tomorrow night and she'll roll her eyes at me, because being sixteen makes things so much simpler, vampires-with-souls included.

And then he's lifting me, shifting so I am cradled on his lap.

"Shh," he says, rocking, "Buffy, love. We'll talk about it tomorrow, we'll figure it all out tomorrow."

I stutter over a sob, fasten my fingers tightly around the line of buttons down his over-shirt. It's so familiar, and somehow so good.

"Okay." I am silent a minute against his chest. Then I sniffle like an idiot, and ask, "Can I have a brownie?"

He laughs, a low chuckle, pained but happy. "Sure, love. Just not yet. Just . . . not just yet."

I think it's a good start.


End file.
